PR 5488 



1900 





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An Object of Pity 



OR 



The Man Haggard 



BY | 

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 

and five of his friends 



NEW YORK 

DODD, MEAD & COMPANY 

J900 






50040 



Library of Congr«M 

"*wj Copies Recfcivto 
SEP 21 1900 

Copyright «ntry 
&44»4- +! , f 4*+ 

SECOND COPY. 

LM*V*«*J to 

ORDttf DWSIOft, 
O CT 13 1900 



Copyright, 1900. 
By Dodd, Mead and Company. 



One hundred and ten copies printed. 



CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Preface 5 

Lady Jersey's Account of Her Visit to the 

Rebel King 9 

An Object of Pity; or, The Man Haggard. 

Dedication 15 

Chapter I. Samoa 19 

Chapter II. The Mulled Mystery of 

Malie 25 

Chapter III. "There Was a Sound of 

Revelry by Night"... 36 

Chapter IV. "Late, Ever Late" 52 

Chapter V. Extract from the Diary 

of a Woman Child... 59 

Epilogos 61 

Vale — Samoa 68 



Preface* 



PREFACE. 



In the Stevenson Medley Mr. Sidney Colvin 
collected some of the more unpretentious work 
of Robert Louis Stevenson, including some of 
his early juvenile productions and those inter- 
esting "fugitive" leaflets which he wrote and 
the illustrations for which he engraved for his 
stepson, Lloyd Osborne, to print on his toy 
press. He did not, however, reprint another 
of Stevenson's humorous undertakings in lit- 
erature. We refer to that "Ouida romance" 
mentioned in one of the Vailima letters, as fol- 
lows: 

Thence all together to Vailima, where we 
read aloud a Ouida Romance we have been 
secretly writing; in which Haggard was the 
hero, and each one of the authors had to draw 
a portrait of him or herself in a Ouida light. 
Leigh, Lady J., Fanny, R. L. S., Belle and 
Graham were the authors. 

And in the new Letters as 

O, my life is the more lively, never fear ! It 
has recently been most amusingly varied by 
a visit from Lady Jersey. I took her over 
mysteriously (under the pseudonym of my 



Preface* 



cousin, Miss Amelia Balfour) to visit Mataafa, 
our rebel ; and we had great fun, and wrote 
a Ouida novel on our life here, in which every 
author had to describe himself in the Ouida 
glamour, and of which — for the Jerseys intend 
printing it — I must let you have a copy. 

This "romance" has never been published, 
though it has been twice privately printed. 
The first edition, from which it is here re- 
printed, is a small sixteenmo, with the title, 
An Object of Pity; or, the Man Haggard. The 
title-page says, "Imprinted at Amsterdam," 
but this is probably only carrying out an old 
custom of assigning Amsterdam as the birth- 
place of books which, for one reason or an- 
other, were not openly published. The paper 
on which the book is printed has the water- 
mark, "Hudson & Kearns Legal Note Lon- 
don S. E.," and it was no doubt printed in 
England. 

This "romance" was founded upon fact, 
having been built upon certain events which 
took place during the visit of the Countess of 
Jersey and her party there in August, 1892. 
While there, the guest of Mr. Bazett Michael 
Haggard, the English member of the Land 
Commission of the Islands and brother of 
Rider Haggard, they conceived the idea of visit- 
ing the "rebel" king, Mataafa. This visit was 
arranged by Stevenson, who was friendly with 
that sovereign, and, indeed, at the time, afraid 
of being forced by German influence to leave 
the country. This visit has been described 



Preface* 



by Lady Jersey herself in an article in the 
Nineteenth Century for January, 1893, and by 
Stevenson in a long letter to Colvin, dated 
"Friday night, the (I believe) 18th or 20th 
August or September/' 1892. This date was 
really the 19th of August. A note by Lady 
Jersey and two of Stevenson's letters to her 
referring to the excursion are printed on pp. 
260-262, Vol. II. , of the new Letters. 

While this visit to Mataafa seems to have 
been the event which induced the associated 
authors to write their "romance," only one 
chapter, that by Lady Jersey, deals entirely 
with it. The others hinge more or less upon 
it and relate to other occurrences during her 
visit to the islands. 

Before reprinting the story which contains 
Lady Jersey's romantic account of her "ad- 
venture" we reprint from the Nineteenth Cen- 
tury article the portion which contains her 
account of the trip. 

The page numbers affixed to the quotations 
from Vailima Letters and Letters to His Fam- 
ily and Friends refer to the first English 
editions. The notes indicated thus (1) (2) 
are Stevenson's own. The others are ours. 

L. S. L. 



Lady Jersey's Account* 



LADY JERSEY'S ACCOUNT OF HER 
VISIT TO THE REBEL KING. 

FROM THE "NINETEENTH CENTURY." 

Having been duly presented to orthodox 
royalty [King Malietoa], we were naturally 
anxious to invade the camp of Mataafa, com- 
monly called the Rebel King. Here, however, 
neither Commissioner nor Consul could law- 
fully set foot, nor could the relatives of a 
British Governor be formally introduced to the 
Pretender. A deep-laid scheme, quite "faa- 
Samoa" — i.e., according to Samoan custom — 
was promptly concocted. The aid of Mr. Ste- 
venson, who is, as is well known, the friend of 
all parties in the State, was invoked, and he 
undertook to include my brother and myself 
among the members of his family who were 
about to ride over to Malie and spend a night 
in the house of the redoubtable chieftain. 
Members of the official world were to know 
nothing about it, lest their consciences should 
oblige them to enter a protest, and we had to 
assume fictitious names, though on reflection 
I am not quite sure whom these were intended 
to deceive, as they were only used and heard 
by those already in the plot. 

We left our temporary home in the afternoon 



Lady Jersey's Account* 



of the appointed day, and rode by a circuitous 
route to meet Mr. Stevenson's detachment, 
who were concealed in a true conspirator's cor- 
ner in a shady lane not far from a ford, after 
crossing which we almost immediately found 
ourselves in the enemy's country. 

***** 

The first intimation that we were approach- 
ing the quasi-royal village came from a man 
with several attendants who was beating a 
kind of wooden drum on the roadside, evi- 
dently intended as a welcome to our leader, 
who is famous among the natives under the 
melodious name of Tusitala, the teller of tales. 
A little further on the whole population came 
out to meet us with their pretty salutation 
"Talofa," which means "a loving greeting." 
Though the eager inquiries for "the lady" 
overheard around gave reason to fear that 
my incognita was not a brilliant success, we 
sturdily carried through our little comedy, 
and just before sunset rode past the rebel 
guard, strongly built men in native costume, 
for Mataafa has not followed the example of 
his cousin and rival by putting his army into 
regulation attire. He himself wears a white 
coat, but adheres to the lava-lava instead of 
trousers. He is a fine-looking man, and re- 
ceived us with much dignity, though with 
manifest pleasure. 

***** 

Our dinner, which was cooked in an outer 
building, and served on a table in the back 



Lady Jersey's Account* 



ii 



part of the house, consisted of pigeons, 
chickens, taros and yams; we were supplied 
with plates, knives and forks, while Mataafa, 
who sat with us, ate with his fingers. As 
usual in native repasts, neither bread nor salt 
was provided, and another supply of cocoa- 
nut milk was the beverage. After an interval, 
when we had returned to the forepart of the 
apartment, the inevitable kava appeared. This 
was felt to be the critical moment, as, though 
native politeness had prevented a direct inter- 
rogation, many fishing questions as to "the 
family" present had been asked. This was 
private kava, not King's kava, when certain 
chiefs always take precedence, and we knew 
that the cup would be first offered to the guest 
who was considered of highest rank. When, 
therefore, the cocoanut containing the kava was 
given to me before any of the others present, 
the difficulty of keeping our countenances was 
great, and we were thankful that no serious 
consequences would attend the penetration of 
our disguise, as might have befallen a Han- 
overian spy found in a Jacobite camp in '45. 
The scene was really somewhat romantic ; the 
mixed company of Europeans and natives 
seated within the glimmer of a small lamp, the 
dusky, dark-eyed forms flitting to and fro in 
the background, and last, but not least, the 
fine old talking-man Popo, who when his king 
drank shouted in stentorian voice one or more 
of the royal names — "The triumph of his 
pledge" of Hamlet. Popo is a remarkable 



Lady Jersey's Account* 



character; he lived before the days of Chris- 
tianity, though now he wears round his neck a 
little cross as the symbol of his faith. He is 
quite unlike the ordinary native, who, how- 
ever handsome, has almost always the broad 
and rather flat cheek-bones of the Malay type; 
while, as Mr. Stevenson records : 

with an aquiline face designed 
Like Dante's, he who had worshipped feathers 

and shells and wood, 
As a pillar alone in the desert that points where 

a city stood, 
Survived the world that was his, playmates 

and gods and tongue, 
For even the speech of his race had altered 

since Pope was young. 

Preparations for our night's rest were al- 
ready in progress. Generally in a native house 
all lie down on mats and sleep in the common 
room, but Mataafa, having been forewarned of 
the arrival of a lady somewhat unaccustomed 
to Samoan arrangements, had prepared a very 
large tapa curtain, which was now dropped, and 
a portion of the house thereby partitioned off 
for Mrs. Strong (Mr. Stevenson's stepdaugh- 
ter) and myself. Behind this curtain a pile 
of fine mats was laid upon the ground with the 
further luxuries of a pillow apiece, while a 
mosquito curtain descended over our couch, 
where we soon slept as soundly as on any 
English bed, rejoicing in the soft, warm 
climate, which renders sheets and blankets un- 
necessary. 

***** 



AN OBJECT OF PITY 

OR 
THE MAN HAGGARD 



or, The Man Haggard* 



15 



DEDICATION. 
[by robert louis stevenson.] 

Lady Ouida : 

Many besides yourself have exulted to col- 
lect Olympian polysyllables, and to sling ink, 
not Wisely but too Well. They are forgot- 
ten, you endure. Many have made it their 
goal and object to Exceed; and who else has 
been so Excessive? Many have desired to see 
the world otherwise (and, if possible, Larger) 
than God made it; and in this ambition none 
has been prospered to succeed like the author 
of Strathmore. It is therefore with a becom- 
ing diffidence that we profit by an unusual cir- 
cumstance to approach and address you. 

We, undersigned, all persons of ability and 
good character, were suddenly startled to find 
ourselves walking in broad day in the halls 
of one of your romances. We looked about us 
with embarrassment, we instinctively spoke 
low; and you were good enough not to per- 
ceive the intrusion or to affect unconsciousness. 
But we were there; we have inhabited your 
tropical imagination ; we have lived in the real- 
ity which you had but dreamed of in your 
studio. And the Man Haggard above all. The 
house he dwells in was not built by any car- 



16 An Object of Pity; 



penter, you wrote it with your pen ; the friends 
with which he has surrounded himself are the 
mere spirit of your nostrils; and those who 
look on at his career are kept in a continual 
twitter lest he should fall out of the volume; 
in which case, I suppose, he must infallibly in- 
jure himself beyond repair: and the characters 
in the same novel, what would become of 
them? And must they not go on pretending 
(with what countenance they might) that the 
Man Haggard was there, and had just inter- 
rupted them? much as Salvini has been seen 
to do when the ghost of Banquo failed him at 
the tryst. 

The present volume has been written slav- 
ishly from your own gorgeous but peculiar 
point of view. Your touch of complaisance 
in observation, your genial excess of epithet 
and the grace of your antiquarian allusions 
have been cultivated like the virtues. Could 
we do otherwise? When nature and life had 
caught the lyre from your burning hands, who 
were we to affect a sterner independence? But 
while seeking to borrow tints from that ad- 
mired palette, we have been careful to respect 
the Facts of the Case. As for the characters, 
each author has been intrusted with his own, 
a certain pledge of sincerity; while all have 
contributed emulously to enrich the central 
figure of the Man Haggard with the orna- 
ments of truth and soberness. For the in- 
cidents, it must be owned the Epilogue is still 
prophetic; but to all acquainted with Norfolk, 



or, The Man HaggarcL 



17 



it will seem highly credible. The King's 
palace, again, appears to be not quite vera- 
ciously described, and you are recommended 
not to rely in practice on the recipe for Kava: 
it was not a cookery book we had in view. 
Lastly, there is a regrettable incident referred 
to on p. 45, on which I must trouble you with 
a more particular comment. It is doubtless 
highly characteristic of the Man Haggard ; and 
the words attributed to him after the deed 
were actually uttered and heard. But of the 
deed itself, in spite of an unwarrantable state- 
ment in the text, we have no legal evidence, or 
not any which would be accepted by a Nor- 
folk jury. And it is only fair to say that 
none of those present remarked an occurrence 
which could scarce have passed without at- 
tracting a measure of attention, and that no 
persons have since been reported missing in 
the city. 

In every other particular the volume in your 
hands is true, and you are to consider whether 
your interests have been infringed, what 
should be your proper remedy, and before what 
Court, and against what defendant you should 
now proceed; whether against the Man Hag- 
gard for a simple trespass, or against his 
parents, who seem guilty of a flagrant breach 
of literary good faith ; and whether the British 
Government, which certainly aided and abetted, 
and may be said to have held a candle in the 
business, should not, perhaps, be called a party 
to the suit. 



1 8 An Object of Pity; 



We are, Lady Ouida, 

Your fond admirers, 
O le Tamaitai Sili 

(The Queen Woman), alias Amelia. 
O le Tapenali 

(Prince Rupert). 
O le Fafine Mamana O I le Mauga 

(The Witch Woman of the Mountain). 
O Tusitala 

(The Writer of Tales). 
O Teuila 

(The Adorer 1 of the Ugly). 
O Pelema 

(Significance unknown; ignotus ipse 
nomine ignoto), a Globe-trotter. 

Apia, August 2, 1892. 



Evidently a misprint. This should read 
"adorner." "Belle had that day been the al- 
moner in a semi-comic distribution of wedding 
rings and thimbles (bought cheap at an auc- 
tion) to the whole plantation company, fitting 
a ring on every man's finger and a thimble on 
both the women's. This was very much in 
character with her native name Teuila, the 
adorner of the ugly." 

Vailima Letters, p. 226. 



or, The Man Haggard* 



19 



CHAPTER I. 

Samoa. 

[by captain leigh.] 

The Commission had finished its sitting for 
the day, and the Man Haggard, Her Britannic 
Majesty's Commissioner, strode jauntily away. 
He was in high spirits. In the first place, it 
was Friday, and the wearisome sittings would 
not be resumed till the following Monday; in 
the second place, he was beginning to revolve 
in his mind a visit to the Gibraltar of the Pa- 
cific — the sea-girt island of Apolima. 1 But as 
in the very harbour of Apia, a placid sea con- 
ceals the most treacherous reefs, so there were 
difficulties in his path, which, if he had been 
cognisant of, might have subdued even his 
stout heart. Far off, on a long stretch of sand, 
Mr. Firtree, 2 the Chief Justice, watched, 
through his glasses, the long, quick stride of 



1 "Apolima (The Hollow of the Hand'), a 
natural sea-girt fortress, where an impregna- 
ble wall of rock, rising on every side round a 
verdure-lined crater, leaves one only portal, 
barricaded by tumbling surf." 

Lady Jersey. 

2 Conrad Cedarkrantz, a Swede, the Chief 
Justice of the islands. 



20 



An Object of Pity; 



the white-clad hero, and muttered beneath his 
breath deep Swedish oaths. Nearer still, the 
Baron von Pilsener, 1 the President of the 
Council, eyed with a cruel look the figure of 
the man whom he feared would thwart his 
craftiest schemes of self-aggrandisement, and 
an attentive bystander would have heard the 
mystic words, "Potztausend, Donner und 
Blitz!" fall from his lips; while from many a 
German store a guttural "Ach" burst from 
Teutonic lips. Different, indeed, was the mode 
of the cunning Jesuits, but none the less vindic- 
tive. No murmur escaped the lips of the men 
schooled in the cloisters of Italian monas- 
teries ; but none the less they were determined 
to gain, for Holy Church, the richest lands of 
the most lovely island of the Pacific — by fair 
means if possible; if not, by fraud. 

But ignorant, and therefore heedless of the 
plots of these various conspirators, the Man 
Haggard walked boldly on. 

Let us pause a moment to gaze on the hero 
of our tale. In the prime of life, he is one 
who has seen much and travelled much. Rath- 
er above than below the middle height, broad- 
shouldered and deep-chested, with a frank 
face and a ruddy beard; he is what he looks, a 
thorough Englishman. In character he is a 
man of quick determination, loquacious rather 
than taciturn; ready to accept with cheerful- 
ness whatever fate may bring him, and to do 

*Baron Senfft von Pilsach, the President of 
the Council. 



or, The Man Haggard* 



21 



his duty to the best of his ability — a worthy 
representative of his country's diplomacy in 
this southern isle. 

And now, as he wends his way along the 
beach, he gazes to the left on the lovely bay 
of Apia, peacefully sleeping in the calm of a 
southern afternoon, and thinks how different 
was its aspect when six great warships went 
ashore in the fearful hurricane of 1889, and 
one man-of-war alone, which bore the meteor 
flag of England, stood bravely out to sea. On 
his right hand lie the houses of the little town 
of Apia, embowered in the lovely verdure of 
the tropics, and beyond them one glorious 
mass of green foliage, which is only terminated 
by the outline of a lofty chain of mountains, 
now tinged with the declining rays of a setting 
sun. "Good-evening," says a cheery voice, and 
the Man Haggard starts from his revery, as 
Duncombe trots past on his stout bay cob, 
which could well hold his own in Rotten Row 
or the Bois de Boulogne. 

Then he comes on a group of Samoan chil- 
dren, merry, brown-skinned little savages, who 
look up from their game of marbles to bid 
him a laughing "Talofa." 1 Next a pretty half- 
caste girl claims a bow of recognition, and 
then the British Consul and his wife gallop 
past, returning from their evening ride. 

And so his walk continues, and he has 



1 "Their pretty salutation 'Talofa/ which 
means 'a loving greeting.' " 

Lady Jersey. 



22 An Object of Pity; 



nearly reached his own palm-embowered 
chateau, when his face lights up with more 
than its wonted brightness, for he sees walk- 
ing quickly toward him handsome Prince Ru- 
pert, 1 the man who has braved the dangers of 
the deep, and, dauntlessly embarking on the 
deck of the Lubeck, 2 has steered his course 
through the mazy shoals of the Pacific, straight 
to the Samoan group ; the man who has out- 
cooked Captain Cook, and put Baron Mun- 
chausen to shame. Lightly knocking the ashes 
off the end of his scented Cabana, and with 
the look in his eyeglass which, if rumour be 
true, broke the heart of the Duchess X.Y.Z., 
Rupert springs gracefully in the air, and with a 
panther-like movement lands airily on the 
Man Haggard's toe. To apologise is the work 
of one second, to explain the motive, of an- 
other. 

"'Pain in your corns, eh !" says Rupert with 
easy badinage. "I fear you'll find peine de 
ceeur worse. Listen, mon ami, prenez garde, 
there is another conspiracy/' 

For a moment of time the Man Haggard 
feels inclined to laugh, a smile ripples across 
his features, but the warning look in Rupert's 
eyes, and the deepening frown of his massive 
forehead, which only adds to the grandeur of 
his intense beauty, warns his companion that 



2 Captain Leigh. 

2 The Norddeutscher Lloyd steamship on 
which Lady Jersey and her party arrived from 
Sydney. 



or, The Man Haggard* 



23 



this is no laughing matter; and with strong, 
nervous diction he breaks out with a flow of 
words, and louder and louder he shouts, 
shouts, SHOUTS: 

"A conspiracy, and against me ! I tell you 
they dare not do it ! Who is it ? Not that ass 
Tee-too-tum; not that I think he's half as 
great an ass as Tee-too-tee, though that's pos- 
sibly a matter of opinion; though, as for that, 
I think my opinion is worth much more than 
any German or Swede out here, though I can't 
imagine why on earth they sent a Swede, who 
really, anyhow for the first few months, didn't 
know a word of English; and I really don't 
think he's much better now. But German or 
Swede or American, I advise them to look 
out. I don't think it is worth taking notice 
of anything any Samoans might do; and, be- 
sides, I'm quite friendly with the Samoans, or, 
at least, I don't think I'm unfriendly; though, 
as for that, there's no knowing what they 
might do. I've a couple of Samoan servants 
now ; but then, really, if it wasn't for Abdool 1 — 
you know Abdool — he makes them understand, 
and really they are immensely improved. But 
I tell you I've got the Foreign Office at my 
back; though, of course, now Gladstone's in — 
or at least I suppose he's in — not that that will 
make much difference, for he can't stop in. 



1 Abdul. "Haggard and the great Abdul, his 
high-caste Indian servant, imported by my 
wife." 

Vailima Letters, p. 145. 



24 An Object of Pity; 



You see if the House of Lords throws out his 
Home Rule Bill — though for that matter he's 
got to pass it through the Commons first; and 
then, you must remember the Parnellites are 
sure to go against the anti-Parnellites. Well, 
even if an abominable Radical Government 
won't support me, I'm independent, and I'll 
defy them. I'm the only man — absolutely the 
only man — who's got ten-finger glasses. Did 
I ever tell you how I got them? Well, you 
see, Calcraft — you remember Calcraft. . . ." 

"You'll see no more of Calcraft," Rupert 
broke in, pointing to the horizon, where the 
last rays of the setting sun threw a light on 
the fast receding hull, and the black masts of a 
home-bound steamer; "he's off to England in 
the Pate de Fois Gras, our deadliest enemy 
will be at home before you." "What care I," 
cried the Man Haggard, "good riddance of bad 
rubbish !" 

As he spoke the sun sank, and a heavy trop- 
ical rain commenced to fall. Was it an omen? 
Blind puppets of fortune that we are. Could 
the Man Haggard but have looked into the fu- 
ture, he would indeed have been appalled. The 
passenger by the Pate de Fois Gras was the 
man who held in his hand the fate and future 
of the owner of the Ten Finger-Glasses. 



or, The Man Haggard* 



25 



CHAPTER II. 

The Mulled Mystery of Malie. 

[by lady jersey, the extract from the 
"samoid" by robert louis stevenson. 1 ] 

Two were the troops that encountered; one 

from the way of the shore, 
And the house where at night, by the timid, 

the Judge may be heard to roar, 
And one from the side of the mountain. Now, 

these at the trysting spot 
Arrived, and lay in the shade. Nor let their 

names be forgot. 

2 This is Stevenson's account of the adven- 
ture in prose: "We left the mail at the 
P. O., had lunch at the hotel, and about 1.50 
set out westward to the place of tryst. This 
was by a little shrunken brook in a deep chan- 
nel of mud, on the far side of which, in a 
thicket of low trees, all full of moths of 
shadow and butterflies of sun, we lay down to 
await her ladyship. Whiskey and water, then 
a sketch of the encampment for which we all 
posed to Belle, passed off the time until 3.30. 
Then I could hold on no longer. Thirty min- 
utes late. Had the secret oozed out? Were 
they arrested? I got my horse, crossed the 
brook again, and rode hard back to the Vaea 
cross roads, whence I was aware of white 
clothes glancing in the other long straight 



26 An Object of Pity; 



Pelema, the World- Perquester, (i) gaitered, 
and grave of face, 

Came first. And dark as the dames of the 
isle, her sojourning place, 

She that "adored the Uncomely ,, (2) rode in 
a habit of white, 

But pale as the east at dawn her brother rode 
by her right: 

He that was feared by slaves. (3) And Tel- 
ler of Tales was there. 

And clad in the island kilt wijth an island rose 
in his hair, 

Iina, a chief of Savaii, (4) and only a boy in 
years ; 

And Raphael, 1 he that had charge of the Tel- 
ler's horses and steers. 

So these in the shade awaited the hour, and 
the hour went by ; 

And ever they watched the ford of the stream 
with an anxious eye; 

radius of the quadrant. I turned at once to re- 
turn to the place of tryst ; but D. overtook me, 
and almost bore me down, shouting 'Ride, 
ride F like a hero in a ballad. Lady Margaret 
and he were only come to shew the place ; they 
returned, and the rest of our party, reinforced 
by Captain Leigh and Lady Jersey, set out 
for Malie. The delay was due to D.'s infinite 
precautions, leading them up lanes, by back 
ways, and then down again to the beach road 
a hundred yards further on." 

Vailima Letters, pp. 205-6. 

^afaele. One of Stevenson's servants. 
"Lafaele, provost of the cattle." 

Vailima Letters, p. 151. 



or, The Man Haggard* 



27 



And care, in the shade of the grove, consumed 

them, a doubtful crew, 
As they harboured close from the bands of the 

Men of Mulinuu.(5) 
But the heart of the Teller of Tales at length 

could endure no more; 
He loosed his steed from the thicket, and 

passed to the nearer shore, 
And back through the land of his foes, cheer- 
ing his steed, and still 
Scouting for enemies hidden. And, lo! under 

Vaca 1 Hill, 
At the crook of the road a clatter of hoofs and 

a glitter of white ! 
And there came the band from seaward, swift 

as a pigeon's flight. 
Two were but there to return : the Judge of 

the Titles in Land; (6) 
He of the lion's hair, bearded, boisterous, bland ; 
And the maid that was named for the 

pearl, (7) a maid of another isle. 
Light as a daisy rode, and gave us the light of 

her smile — 
But two to pursue the adventure : one that was 

called the Queen, (8) 
Light as the maid, her daughter, rode with us 

veiled in green, 
And deep in the cloud of the veil, like a deer's 

in a woodland place. 
The fire of the two dark eyes, in the field of 

the unflushed face. 



\A misprint; should be Vaea Hill. 



28 An Object of Pity; 



And one, her brother, that bore the name of a 

knight of old, (9) 
Rode at her heels unmoved; and the glass in 

his eye was cold. 
Bright is the sun in the brook; bright are the 

winter stars; 
Brighter t^e glass in the eye of that captain of 

hussars. 

Tusitala's Samoid, 1 Canto XII. 

(1) Pelema, the globe-trotter. 2 

&)L r&' ,ias l c w»--' heWi ' ch 

(4) The chief name of Henry Simete. 6 

(5) Fabled monsters, plausibly said to be em- 
blematic of extinct volcanoes. They were two 
in number, the name of the one was The Lau- 
relled, 7 that of the other The Corked. 8 

(6) "The Man Haggard." 

(7) The "Pearl of Guernsey."* See Ch. III. 

(8) Le Tamaitai Sili. 10 

(9) Le Tapanali. 11 



1 "Among our other occupations, I did a bit 
of a supposed epic describing our tryst at the 
ford of the Gase-gase." 

Vailima Letters, p. 213. 
2 Graham Balfour. 
3 Mrs. Strong. 
4 Lloyd Osborne. 
5 Mrs. R. L. Stevenson. 
6 Stevenson's Overseer. 
7 Conrad Cedarkrantz, the Chief Justice. 
8 Baron von Pilsach. 

"Lady Margaret, daughter of Lady Jersey. 
10 Lady Jersey. 
"Captain Leigh. 



or, The Man Haggard* 



29 



Yes, Haggard, those sails as they disappear 
on the horizon seem like the wings of depart- 
ing hope ! The toils are thickening round thee, 
and as thou standest thinking — now of the 
crafty Swede, now of the Ten Finger-Glasses, 
now of the distant home of thy careless youth 
— not far from thee a conversation is taking 
place which weaves a fresh black strand into 
the web of thy future. The interlocutors are 
two in number, but have guile sufficient for a 
hundred — better indeed had a hundred Samoan 
warriors vowed vengeance against thee, than 
that two such subtle intellects coming in con- 
tact had struck an electric spark, to cast so 
lurid a glare upon thy fate. He 1 was of the 
genuine Machiavellian type. His keen black 
eyes and aquiline features bespoke the tren- 
chant spirit which would cut like a knife 
through every combination opposed to his de- 
signs — nay, it is hinted that not merely the 
mental, but the substantial dagger would prove 
no stranger to that guiding brain, should it be 
required to remove a troublesome adversary 
from the path of Tusitala. She 2 was a wan- 
derer, sprung from no one exactly knew 
where; some said that England, some that 
Scotland, some that Australia was her native 
land; others did not hesitate to assert that 
the somewhat swarthy hue of her thin, eager 
features was due to an admixture of Indian or 
Egyptian blood. One thing alone was certain : 



2 Robert Louis Stevenson. 
2 Lady Jersey. 




An Object of Pity; 



in whatever part of the world she might make 
a transient apparition, one constant friend was 
ever at hand in the hour of need — her family- 
steed "Pedigree." Her great-grandfather was 
said to have seen this noble charger in the 
desert of Sahara. It was the last and most 
valued possession of an Arab Sheik. "Give 
me that steed," said the ancestor, "and I will 
cast thee a purse of gold." "Not I, O Frank !" 
said the son of the desert, "gold does not pur- 
chase the war-horse of my free forefathers." 
"Take then this ruby aigrette, the colour of 
blood !" "Nay, rather my life's ruddy stream 
shall be poured forth !" "This chain of dia- 
monds from Golconda !" "Diamonds ! away 
with them, they are like pure water for lack 
of which I perish." "You perish ! then take 
this flask of living crystal from the spring of 
Parnassus, and give me that charger." Ere 
the fainting Bedouin could renew his remon- 
strance, the proud Frank had wrested the 
silken reins from his nerveless grasp, and fling- 
ing him the flask, had galloped into infinity. 
Since that hour the Arab horse had been an 
heirloom in the family of Amelia, the Queen 
Woman, and was now standing at her side. 
Tusitala greeted her with the words, preg- 
nant with meaning, "We have met before, 
Amelia." "On the sunny shores of the Med- 
iterranean?" "Yes; do you recall the mar- 
riage of Prince — " "Silence ! why refer to by- 
gone years? Is not the present sufficient?" 
and Amelia heaved a sigh, which quickly 



or, The Man Haggard* 



31 



changed into a glance of disdain, as she added, 
"Let feeble minds regret; it is ours to act." 
"Maybe," said Tusitala, with something of a 
sneer, "but how?" "Do you ask? Does not 
Malie lie yonder? I must hie thither ere the 
moon reaches her first quarter, and you must 
help me." "I, Amelia? but are you not 
here as the guest of the Man Haggard, and 
is not he the sworn foe of Malie's chief?" 
"What matter? Amelia is not accustomed to 
ask twice, nor is Tusitala used to plot and 
fail." 

One instant paused Tusitala. He thought of 
the past, when he and the Man Haggard had 
wandered together on many a coral strand; 
of the present, when the innocent friend of 
those sunny hours was doubtless smoking 
scented narcotics encased in argent holders ; of 
the future, when compliance with Amelia's 
rash demand might lead — but no ; intrigue was 
the breath of Tusitala' s nostrils, and he re- 
plied: "Knowest thou the Ford of Gasi-gasi? 
At sunset, two days hence, I will be there. 
Say what thou wilt to the Man Haggard, but 
as thou valuest the lives and liberty of all, dis- 
guise thyself so that none at Malie may know 
that thou art the daughter of — " "Peace, pra- 
ter! am I not always disguised?" "I have sup- 
ported enough of thine haughtiness," retorted 
Tusitala, with an arrogance equal to her own; 
"but recollect this: if, when the kava bowl at 
Malie is passed from hand to hand, the Chief 
— nay, I will say it, the Monarch — gives it first 



32 An Object of Pity; 



to thy lips, the mystery is mulled." "The 
wine is mulled, I suppose you mean/' re- 
sponded the dame. And with this unique jest 
they parted. 

What dusky form glides from the grove of 
bananas, whose graceful tendrils had twined 
round the tall palms, forming an impenetrable 
screen behind them? Whither does he hie, 

and what fatal secret does he carry — where ? 1 
***** 

Lofty columns of richly carved bread-fruit 
stems bear aloft the vaulted roof of the Chief 
of Malie's ancestral hall. Cocoanuts hang in 
clusters from their capitals, and if any desire 
to drink they have but to raise a hand and 
press them to their lips. Piles of soft mats, 
woven in the richest hues of the glowing south, 



lr This is Stevenson's account of the second 
part of the adventure as related in his letter 
to Colvin : "It was agreed that Lady Jersey 
existed no more; she was now my cousin, 
Amelia Balfour. That relative and I headed 
the march ; she is a charming woman, all of us 
like her extremely after trial on this some- 
what rude and absurd excursion. And we 
Amelia'd or Miss Balfour'd her with great but 
intermittent fidelity. When we came to the 
last village, I sent Henry on ahead to warn 
the King of our approach and amend his dis- 
cretion if that might be. As he left I heard 
the villagers asking which zvas the great lady? 
And a little further, at the borders of Malie 
itself, we found the guard making a music of 
bugles and conches. Then I knew the game 
was up and the secret out." 

Vailima Letters, pp. 206-7. 



or, The Man Haggard* 



33 



cover the emerald turf; beneath them are piled 
beds of rose leaves, so that when the dusky 
warriors throw their stalwart forms on the 
yielding fibres the sweetest fragrance is wafted 
into the mellow air of the tropics. Lovely 
damsels, reclining at the foot of each couch, 
wave fans wrought of the feathers of birds 
of paradise, with handles of sandal-wood and 
ivory. Above, from beam to beam, are sus- 
pended garlands of bougainvillaeas, hibiscus, 
roses, oleanders and tuberoses, on which are 
perched the humming-birds, whose plumage 
flashes like emeralds and rubies in the glare 
of a thousand torches, held by beautiful boys 
attired in scarlet lava-lavas elaborately worked 
in gold, and in pure white tapa turbans, each 
embroidered with the motto, "Faa-Samoa," the 
ancestral war cry of Malie's Chief. 

A low ivory table is placed in the centre of 
the banqueting hall, and around it recline the 
Chief, Tusitala and his clansmen, and one 
shrouded figure, wreathed in an impenetrable 
veil, whom he has introduced as "My cousin 
from beyond the seas." The Chief of Malie is 
a man of gigantic stature, and of a wild and 
resolute appearance. Behind him stands the 
white-robed, long-bearded priest of his ancient 
faith, who ever and anon, with a sinister glance 
at the Unknown, bends forward and whispers 
in the ear of his lord. But neither Tusitala 
nor the Unknown deign to quail before danger. 

"Whence comes thy cousin?" demanded the 
Chief. 



34 An Object of Pity; 



"From a far land, from many far lands, I 
may say," replied the man of intrigue. 

"You have been a good friend to me, Tusi- 
tala, and I gladly welcome the ladies of thy 
clan, but thou knowest that I have cause to 
dread the stranger," mutters the Lord of Malie 
somewhat beneath his breath. 

"A stranger may bring woe, but a stranger 
may also bring weal," interjects the imprudent 
Amelia. 

A sardonic smile flits from the face of the 
priest to that of the Chief. The latter signals 
"Bring kava." "Kava! Kava!" shout the 
warriors, and clash their weapons together. 

"Kava, kava," sing the crouching maidens, 
and every bird of paradise plume waves to- 
gether in the ambrosial air. 

"Kava, kava!" echo the shrill voices of the 
torch bearers, who in rhythmic chorus swing 
their flambeaux on high. The long proces- 
sion enters as the silken portals are flung 
aside. First twelve beautiful maidens, walk- 
ing three and three ; the centre one of each 
trio bears a branch of roses; from either side 
depends a trail of rosebuds, the end of which 
is upheld by her companions. Then came the 
old men of the tribe, who have laid aside 
the chains of skulls and assegais of their prime 
to don the long white robes and parchment 
scrolls of eld. Last march the aspirants to 
manhood — youths awaiting the ceremony of 
initiation : each carries one of the ingredients 
— the fruit of the kava-tree, the spice, the cin- 



or, The Man Haggard* 



35 



namon, the nutmeg, the intoxicating juice of 
the banyan — all that goes to compound that 
nectar of the Pacific, the fatally tempting, the 
maddening beverage — kava. 

The maidens range themselves on either 
side of the Chief's chair of state — the elders 
group themselves in the background, the 
youths kneel in a circle before him. Then 
comes forward the Taupau, the favourite and 
most beautiful daughter of the claimant of 
royal honours. She bears a massive bowl of 
silver, and carrying it to each youth, in turn 
receives from him the concomitant which he 
has had in charge — the kava fruit last; and as 
that falls into the costly mixture the whole 
froths up into living, enticing amber. Kneel- 
ing reverently before her Father and Lord, the 
Taupau gives into his hand the chastely em- 
bossed goblet. All eyes are upon him to see 
to whom the Chief will first assign the draught 
of honour. To the First of Warriors ! To the 
Wisest of the Sages ! To Tusitala, Leader of 
the Allied Clans ! Nay, he gazes on each of 
these and passes him by. He hands the fatal 
bowl to the shrouded form — to Amelia ! * 

"Ah," gasps Tusitala, "the Mystery is 
mulled !" 



1 "After dinner, kava. Lady J. was served 
before me, and the King drank last." 

Vailima Letters, p. 207. 



36 An Object of Pity; 



CHAPTER III. 1 

"There was a Sound of Revelry by Night." 

[by mrs. r. l. stevenson.] 

Sombre clouds with ragged edges blowing 
back and forth like the fringe of a pall borne 
through wild weather rent the tropical sky. 
The leaves of the forest rattled together with 
a sound as of marching armies. Darkness and 
storm seemed struggling for the possession 
of Apolima, that fair isle where it would be 
no surprise to meet the daughter of Theia and 
Hyperion, she who loved fresh, young life, 
and with whom surely no youth famed for 
beauty, and prowess in war and the chase, 
would refuse to drive to immortality behind 
her four white steeds. It is possible that many 
a strong breast heaved with eager expectation 
when for that emotion there was no occasion, 
for the heart of the male is everywhere the 

We surmise that this chapter, as well as 
the next, refers to the reception at the Land 
Commissioner's, noted by Stevenson, as fol- 
lows : "Tuesday was huge fun ; a reception at 
Haggard's. All our party dined there; Lloyd 
and I, in the absence of Haggard and Leigh, 
had to play aide-de-camp and host for about 
twenty minutes, and I presented the popula- 
tion of Apia at random, but (luck helping) 
without one mistake." 

Vailima Letters, pp. 211-12. 



or, The Man Haggard* 



37 



same, and sings the self-same song — "Vanity, 
Vanity." 

At least so declared one or two, whose fig- 
ures showed dim against a background of 
dusky green as they rode slowly and pain- 
fully down a rugged mountain path that led 
to the sea. Slowly, because though they in- 
cessantly urged onward their unwilling horses 
with whip and dainty heel, the sagacious ani- 
mals held back with panting nostrils and quiv- 
ering flanks, as though already they scented 
danger; painfully, for now the rain pelted in 
torrents, the road had grown well-nigh impas- 
sable, and the lianas, swinging from the trees, 
lashed the faces of the two riders like whips. 

Both these faces were dark, stained with the 
blood of a wild people from a far land, till 
they vied in hue with the richly adorned sad- 
dles on which they sat. One, at least, was 
not uncomely; hers was the face of a woman- 
child : but, while her eyes shone with expec- 
tancy of inexperience, and a smile fluttered on 
her glad lips, a sinister mark that divided her 
low forehead accorded but ill with the joyous 
expression natural to her years. This marring 
line forgotten ancestors had, as it were, im- 
printed on her brow, a sign — a warning of fate 
and doom. But all unconscious as the blood- 
red rose when kissed by the dawn, the young 
thing sang as she rode. Her horse started, 
shied and made as though to turn. 

"Strike him !" said the elder woman 1 sharply. 



^rs. R. L. Stevenson. 



38 An Object of Pity; 



"Strike when you can, and where you can; 
strike first, for the world waits to strike you." 

But the girl 1 in answer only warbled gaily 
the words of a foolish song, "Life is long, let 
Haggard wait." 

The elder woman twitched her bridle vi- 
ciously : "Time enough," she murmured, "time 
enough; 'tis but a female thing." 

Insolent, arrogant, generous and unjust, this 
woman was a compound of extremes. One 
never knew where to have her ; she never knew 
where to have herself. Her mind was a tangle 
of broken threads that nowhere joined, and 
not even those who knew her best could guess 
into what quagmire she next might drag them ; 
for obedience she exacted as a right, and none 
could stay her hand. Some said she had the 
evil eye; a suspicion fostered by her keen, di- 
rect glance, like one sighting a pistol, and 
whose aim is deadly. And the island people 
in her service believed she kept an evil spirit 
within call, and could read their thoughts 
like an open book. 

"Madame," said one, the stalwart Laefoele, 
falling on his knees as he spoke, "I think my 
wife no good. Please, madame, you look my 
wife's heart. You see good thing, that's all 
right. You see bad thing, I make devil." 

Yet, despite this outward seeming of pene- 
tration and resolution, and though she had 
seen much of mankind in many and strange 
lands, she knew them no more than they 

*Mrs. Strong, Mrs. Stevenson's daughter. 






or, The Man Haggard* 



39 



knew her, but walked in a maze all the days 
of her life. 

And so, in the gathering darkness, and the 
rising storm, these two, the woman and the 
woman-child, rode on — rode on to their doom. 

The sea rolled monstrously over the reef that 
surrounded the isle like the setting of a gem. 
Night had closed in black as Erebus, and the 
spirit of storm moved over the face of the 
great deep. In the firmament of heaven the 
mighty elements warred tumultuously with the 
roll of thunder and darting flashes of fire. 
Through the blackness and the rush and the 
roar, soaked with spray and rain, two figures 
crept over a precarious wharf built of the 
wood of the mangrove swamp, the two who 
had ridden down the rugged mountain path — 
the dark woman and the woman-child. At the 
end of the wharf a boat, tossing in the surf, 
and manned by tattooed savages, naked but for 
their loin cloths, awaited them. 

"I believe we have still time," muttered a 
low, over-sweet voice that had been likened by 
beautiful women to melted butter and honey. 

"You speak like a fool," retorted another 
voice of deeper tone and thrilling timbre; "we 
are not in time." 

The arm of the dark woman was seized with 
a grip of steel, and she and the woman-child, 
passed roughly from one to the other, were 
tossed into the rocking boat beside a sombre 
figure, tall, silent and shrouded in an unsea- 
sonable greatcoat. Whether it was the deafen- 



4o 



An Object of Pity; 



ing noise of the wind and the sea, or that 
gloomy forebodings sat heavily on all, affecting 
even the spirits of Teuila, the woman-child, 
none spoke except to urge on the savage oars- 
men. And it was ever the over-sweet voice 
that broke the silence, and always in the wild 
island tongue, with words of satire and ridi- 
cule. Once, indeed, the woman-child ven- 
tured a "vave, vavel" (haste, haste) ; but it 
was rather a sigh of impatient fear than a 
spoken word. 

Had these boatmen, who bent to their oars 
with so languid a grace — had they first seen the 
light in the days of old Rome, striking their 
strong white teeth into the black bread of the 
peasants, the gourds and the garlic, all the 
ancient superstitions of their ancestors, burned 
into them by the scorching sun of the Eternal 
City, would have paled their bronzed cheeks 
and set their quick southern blood leaping in 
their veins with fearful curiosity; for who 
should be these rovers of the night but the 
Fatui, the offspring of Fatua, with the pointed 
ears, who whispered horrors into the ears of 
those who slept. 

But they knew not — these strong, brown, 
young men with the tattooed skins — of Rome, 
nor of the gods who once sang and leaped and 
loved there on her seven hills; nor did the 
graceful sweep of their long arms quicken 
one jot for the melodious imprecations hurled 
upon them by the over-sweet voice. But 
everything has an end — life, hope, even the 



ot f The Man Haggard* 



41 



chapter of a novel; and as two clouds, one 
from the east and one from the west, met with 
elemental rage in the perturbed arch of 
heaven, the boat grazed some solid substance, 
glanced off at a tangent, and was dragged 
back and held fast while from one to the 
other again were tossed the dark-browed 
woman and the woman-child, like bales of 
worthless merchandise. No sooner, however, 
had their feet touched the stairless pier than 
they fled straight onward, like the Erinnyes 
pursuing Orestes. Close behind followed the 
three men; the one with the voice that had 
a thrill in it, the one with the voice of but- 
ter and honey, and the silent one, who, now 
that he drew himself to his full height, showed, 
even in the darkness of that tempestuous night, 
a stature unusual and commanding. 

All five stopped short within an immense 
vestibule, where their features showed dimly 
by the light of an invisible lamp. The two 
womankind panted, and tried feminine-wise to 
smooth their ruffled locks, at which two of the 
men threw to each other a contemptuous 
smile; but the third neither smiled nor spoke. 
No change passed over his grim, sardonic 
countenance. 

Of the two who smiled, one was dark, the 
other fair. At first sight the one who was 
dark 1 presented the aspect of a boy in his 
teens; the slender figure, tending in repose 
like a lily in the summer wind; the sensitive, 



1 R. L. Stevenson. 



42 An Object of Pity; 



startled nostril, the small, narrow head, the 
bloom on the smooth cheek, the soft, tranquil 
dark eye — all these pertained to youth. But a 
closer inspection revealed silver threads in the 
thinning brown locks, fine lines in the fore- 
head, traced by the inexorable hand of time, 
deepened, perchance, by the follies of his disso- 
lute early life. And behind the eyes, so velvet 
soft, burned the fires of hell. Let no one, in 
fancied security, make the mistake of touching 
this creature on a sensitive nerve. The droop- 
ing figure springs erect with a tigerish activ- 
ity; from the lips, apparently formed to sing 
the praises of fair dames, leaps a torrent of 
blasphemy and imprecation that might well 
appall a fish-wife, his terrible voice ringing 
out like the trump of doom, till strong men 
crawl shuddering from his presence to lie for 
days on their beds sick and prone, while 
women, shrieking and laughing in delirium, flee 
until they fall in their tracks. The name of 
this singular being was Tusitala, the Writer 
of Tales. 

The fair man, 1 he who had exchanged 
smiles with this Tusitala, was still young, tall 
and broad of shoulder. He wore glasses, per- 
haps as a disguise, possibly to hide the steely 
glitter of his hard blue eyes. While Tusitala 
was all aquiline, recalling the day of old Rome, 
when the gods were young, the features of the 
fair man were Greek in their lines, and he 
carried his head like Apollo. In the salons of 

2 Lloyd Osborne. 



of, The Man Haggard* 



43 



the high-born dames 'twas sometimes whis- 
pered that a woman who had wasted the best 
years of her springtime in ministering to the 
caprices of Loia, for so he was called, knew 
where to lay her hand upon a picture of a 
tall, fair lad clothed in naught but the tresses 
of beautiful women, now lying in their forgot- 
ten graves. The mouth with its clean-cut 
curves smiled none the less cynically for that 
remembrance, nor did the over-sweet voice 
change a note, except when whispering in the 
rosy ears of a woman-child. 

The third man of this curious party, 1 the 
silent one, bore some indefinable likeness to 
Tusitala. It was rumoured that they were 
bound together by the ties of kinship. Be that 
as it may, besides this shadowy resemblance 
there was little in common between their char- 
acters, with the exception of a certain vol- 
canic violence of temper, in Tusitala masked 
by the boyish smoothness of his cheeks and 
the peculiar softness of his gazelle-like eyes. 
Pelema, for that was the present pseudonym of 
the tall, silent man, had not been so favoured 
by nature. In his deep-set eyes suspicion 
lurked, and in each haughty nostril was in- 
dented a signal mark that said, "Ware dan- 
ger !" His enemies likened him to a Tas- 
manian devil, the ferocious beast that holds 
on to its adversary even after death, and 
whose very teeth, once they are set in the 
quivering flesh, must be cut out with knives. 



x Graham Balfour. 



The arched vestibule, where these five sin- 
gularly assorted persons waited, was damp and 
chill, with mouldering tiles underfoot, and en- 
closed within heavily barred iron gates, whence 
fat spiders swung and wove their snares un- 
afraid. The house itself, though not old as 
years are counted, through long untenancy and 
neglect had fallen into ruinous decay, and the 
air from its chambers struck cold to the vitals 
like a breath from the grave. Along an upper 
balcony, at the front, a row of coloured lamps 
swung to and fro, dashed about by the violence 
of a rushing wind. Fisher-folk, far at sea, bat- 
tling for their lives in that wild weather, 
crossed themselves at the sight, and whispered 
one to the other, "the bale fires are burning. ,, 
On either side of the vestibule, and stretching 
indefinitely in the rear of the great building, 
were vast chambers, one leading into the other, 
black, empty, silent. Vague memories of the 
catacombs of old Rome, and half-formed in- 
tuitions of terrible deeds there perpetrated by 
her forefathers, mingled with strangely sweet 
and wholly false dreams of the future, stirred 
the dormant heart of Teuila, the woman-child. 
She pressed closer to the side of the dark 
woman, who repulsed her with an almost sav- 
age gesture. 

It was seemingly the over-sweet voice of 
Loia 1 that broke the silence with an intimation 
that time was passing and life was short. But 
the words came not from the curved lips of 

^loyd Osborne. 



otf The Man Haggard* 



45 



Loia, but from the stern, set mouth of him who 
had hitherto wrapped himself in an ominous 
silence like a cloak of sables. 

With one accord, all moved through a sort of 
antechamber, and up a flight of steep and nar- 
row stairs which debouched into a great salon, 
gay with lights and colours, and heavy with 
the perfume of tropical flowers that wreathed 
but hid not the crumbling walls. 

Slender, agile Indians, narrow-eyed, and 
footing it like cats, appeared and disappeared 
continually, probably through secret doors, un- 
til the head swam and grew giddy with a sense 
of misplaced movement. Through them stalked 
he who was known as the Man Haggard, eager 
to welcome his apparently unexpected guests. 
As he advanced through the long room, with a 
casual movement of his hand (aptly described 
in the language of the novelist as a hand of 
steel in a glove of velvet) he lightly twisted 
the necks of a couple of crouching menials, 
laughing gaily the while, as a boy might laugh 
when pulling off the legs of a cockchafer, cruel 
only in its absolute faun-like thoughtless- 
ness. 

"Abdul, remove the debris," (i) was his only 



(i) The writer has conscientiously striven 
after historical accuracy in every detail of the 
scene here described, which was admitted to 
the pages of this work only after the testimony 
of an eye-witness, who took a solemn oath that 
"these are the exact words that fell from Hag- 
gard's lips.'* 



4 6 



An Object of Pity; 



reference to the subject, as he held out both 
hands to the group at the head of the stairs. 
In a far corner of the salon the pale face and 
dilating eyes of a woman-child alone took 
note of the writhing forms that were instantly 
dragged out of sight by obsequious minions. 
In the halls of Haggard, this young, unsullied 
soul was known as Lady Margaret — fair, pale 
Margaret. 

But not even the merriest sallies of the brill- 
iant Haggard, the wittiest man of his day, 
could dispel the gloom that had entered those 
dazzling halls with the five mysterious strang- 
ers who came unannounced with the storm 
and the darkness. Once only the woman-child 
Teuila, drumming with her small, brown fin- 
gers on the window pane, sang with eldritch 
glee a line of a song learned from her deep- 
bosomed nurse on the arid plains of the 
Campagna, "Time seems long when dinner 
waits." Pelema's strong hand opened and 
shut with a convulsive movement, and she 
sang no more. 

The awkwardness of the situation was saved 
by a summons to a banquet spread at one end 
of the first of the suite of salons. Thither 
the Man Haggard led his guests; at his right 
he placed a regal dame, haughty, pale, with 
eyes of midnight hue, and on his left the 
dark stranger — the weird woman who had rid- 
den down the mountain path. Soup was served 
by hordes of trembling Orientals. As the 
woman of the mountain languidly raised the 



or, The Man Haggard* 



47 



first spoonful to her lips, 1 she caught an enig- 
matical glance from the dark eyes on the right 
of Haggard. She paused — both paused — and 
something of the nature of a challenge passed. 
"If you dare, I dare!" each seemed to say. 
But this incident bore no fruit, passing like an 
idle breath on a pane of glass. 

Nor did anything further of note take place 
till near the end of the banquet, with one 
trifling exception, which did not escape the 
watchful eye of Pelema. Again and again the 
witch woman put forth a brown hand to re- 
ceive an offered goblet of sparkling wine. 
Again and again her fingers closed on empty 
air, and the cup, as it were, was dashed from 
her lips. For a while she sat motionless, 
then, with a lithe, backward movement, she 
clutched the shrinking arm of a passing 
Oriental. 

"Abdul," she hissed in his ear, "do you re- 
member that morning when, for three days and 
nights, nor food nor water had passed your 
lips? And who was it that crept to your side 

x This note on another dinner at the Land 
Commissioner's may explain these allusions : 

"We went to Haggard's. There we had 
to wait the most unconscionable time for din- 
ner. I do not wish to speak lightly of the 
Amanuensis, who is unavoidably present, but 
I may at least say for myself that I was as 
cross as two sticks. Dinner came at last, we 
had the tinned soup which is usually the piece 
de resistance in the halls of Haggard, and we 
pitched into it." 

Vailima Letters, pp. 227-8. 



48 An Object of Pity; 



and pressed a fragrant gourd to your fainting 
lips? Abdul, in the name of Mahomet, I com- 
mand you to fetch me a glass of wine." 

She was obeyed with stealthy celerity; but 
the malevolent gaze of Pelema was upon her; 
the import of a scene, noted by no one else, 
was not lost on him. 

Haggard, meanwhile, sitting at the head of 
his table, dropping jests like diamonds, now 
with a quotation from the classics, now with 
a running fire of compliments in French — 
which he spoke like a native of old Gaul — was 
a figure to wonder at, to admire, to reverence, 
perchance to love. His life had been one long 
romance, and at love he laughed as Cupid is 
said to laugh at locksmiths. At those shapely 
feet that it was his sometime whim to drape in 
silken garments of the far East, with fanciful 
additions of his own invention, Princesses had 
knelt and pled in vain. His very boatmen 
told of a lady of high degree, who, after many 
fruitless attempts to speak with him alone, 
followed him to his boat, and there publicly 
offered him herself, her fortune, her rank, her 
retainers, all that she held dear. With the 
careless boyish laugh that was part of his 
charm for women, he kissed his hand and 
skimmed away over the blue sea like a bird on 
the wing. Here and there, scattered about 
without thought, were souvenirs of his count- 
less unsought conquests. And the slim, brown 
boys, who waited in his antechamber, chucking 
pennies for pastime, might, had they wished it, 



or, The Man Haggard* 



49 



have had women's hearts instead for their 
game. And many a wild female thing had 
blossomed under the sunshine of his pres- 
ence, but to droop again, and die unseen and 
unheeded. 

One at the table, and that not a feminine 
creature, seemed to quail before him. It was 
the tall, fair youth called Loia, who seemed to 
experience an electric thrill when those eagle 
orbs roved past him. 

"I have a paper to read," said Haggard sud- 
denly. From his breast he drew a scroll of 
scented parchment, which, on being opened, 
proved to be a legal document; but though he 
read it with the debonnaire manner of one who 
possessed entire knowledge of all law, human 
and divine, the technicalities of the paper 
seemed not fully understood by any of those 
present, with the exception of Tusitala and 
Pelema, the latter for the first time showing 
a gleam of mirth. But it was demoniacal mer- 
riment that cast a chill over the table. 

Loia drew together the Greek curve of his 
lips, flushed, paled, and then, throwing up his 
head, to the consternation of the company, 
burst into loud song. Each looked at his 
neighbour in wonder, and a blank silence fell 
on all. One by one the other guests recovered 
their composure, and there was a faint mur- 
mur of applause, dominated by what appeared 
to be a hiss from Haggard. In verity, he 
only cried "Bis-bis!" At this the company 
arose with one accord and wandered singly, 



50 An Object of Pity; 



or in depressed pairs, through the great 
rooms. 

The strain was relieved by the chirrup of 
voices in the vestibule. Strangers poured up 
the narrow stairs, inundating two of the great 
chambers. Lady Guernsey, "tall, and most 
divinely fair," threw herself, with an abandon- 
ment of serpent-like grace, into a hastily im- 
provised throne. Who this lady really was is 
a secret that will die with Haggard. Some 
humbly addressed her as queen, some as her 
ladyship, while others called her familiarly by 
the name of Amelia, which, so much is cer- 
tain, was never inscribed on her baptismal reg- 
ister. 

And ever through the throng, like one dis- 
traught, the Pearl of Guernsey, Lady Mar- 
garet, moved, but one question on her pale, 
proud, young lips, "Where is Lady Villiers?" 
At the pathos of the words bearded men turned 
aside to hide their tears, for who in that vast 
mansion could answer the question so artlessly 
put, "Where is Lady Villiers?" 



As the mower sweeps with his scythe grain, 
and blossom, and chaff with one movement of 
his brawny arm, so the babble of voices wa- 
vered and fell. Something that was like the 
blare of trumpets, yet soundless, shook and 
silenced that multitude. Tusitala rose to his 
feet with a countenance livid as death, and an 
expression of envy, malice and hatred that was 



or, The Man Haggard* 



51 



hellish to see. Loia gave one cry of agony and 
fell fainting into the arms of Belle Decker. As 
to Pelema, it would require a pen dipped in 
blood and gall and vengeance and the blackness 
of despair to describe the swift and awful 
change that passed over his face. For there, in 
the doorway, in a full blaze of light, where all 
might see who chose to look, Prince Rupert 
stood! 



52 An Object of Pity; 



CHAPTER IV. 
"Late, ever Late/' 
[by robert louis stevenson.] 
That was a strange house, fit for a strange 
inhabitant. 1 The ground on which it stood was 
low. A tremor and a great voice of the sea 
filled it day and night. Mouldering gardens, 
from which the luxuriance of a tropic flora 
had now almost effaced the artifice of man, 
came close to its walls, and were studded 
with lone pavilions, and browsed by costly 
steeds. Lights passed amid the thickets ; lights 
turn red faintly in the pavilions; in the upper 
story shone the lamps and lantern of the high 
festival ; in all the lower chambers tapers of 
vigilant myrmidons streamed between substan- 
tial gratings. For the place was barred with 
steel, like the heart of him who dwelt there. 



1 "Haggard's rooms are in a strange old 
building — old for Samoa — and has the effect 
of the antique like some strange monastery; 
I would tell you more of it, but I think Fm 
going to use it in a tale. The annexe close by 
had its door sealed ; poor Dowdney lost at sea 
in a schooner. The place is haunted. The 
vast empty sheds, the empty store, the airless, 
hot, long, low rooms, the claps of wind that 
set everything flying — a strange, uncanny house 
to spend Christmas in." 

Vailima Letters, p. 128. 



or, The Man Haggar d. 



53 



Ay, it was a fit home for him: semi-royal, 
sinister, senescent ; strong enough, in a military 
point of view, to bear the onset of besieging 
battalions, and yet tottering to its fall. Bees 
nested in the beams. By night strange tropic 
things poured forth and obscured the bright 
lamps and blotted the rare napery, so that, at 
times, even the Man Haggard would leap in 
a horror from his festival, and roar until the 
caverned peninsula trembled and re-echoed to 
its bowels, and the pale guests and the obse- 
quious alien servants crowded to appease his 
fury. Costly works of art and deadly instru- 
ments of war hung together from the walls; 
costly and humble gewgaws lay heaped in 
barbaric incongruity upon the tables; and at 
times, while the Man Haggard strode in his 
long, unsteady halls, and berated his accom- 
plices, and gave to those weighty despatches, 
over which ministers grew pale, the thunder 
of his voice, then would burn at his side, as it 
burned in the boudoir of the dissolute hetaira, 
as in the retiring room of the luxurious Hus- 
sar, that rare, that almost priceless perfume, 
Ruban de Bruges. Ay, they were well met, the 
strange house and its singular denizen, they 
were well met. 

The guests were assembled, the Queen- 
woman — she who was nameless, but who 
throned it there like any Berenice or Semira- 
mis of the old glad days, when the world's eyes 
were young and the kids danced among the 
capers to the flutes of Pan — the Queen-woman 



54 An Object of Pity; 



sat in her chair, calm of face, but trouble ate 
into her heart. For there was one wanting. 
The dark witch of the mountains stole with 
small steps, peered with swift, dark, uneasy 
eyes, but peered in vain. Still there was one 
wanting. In vain Prince Rupert obliterated all 
expression from his face and veiled an anxious 
glance behind a shining eyeglass; in vain 
he gathered admiration from all women, and 
envy from all men; he, too, felt the omen and 
quailed in his gold lace. And he of the name 
which brought a light to the eye of the Cana- 
dian book-agent, and a flush to the cheek of the 
Chicago pirate — he who had earned fame only 
to despise it, luxury only to discard it — who 
had fled from the splendours of a suburban 
residence to toss in the rude trading schooner 
among unchartered reefs 1 — who had left the 
saturnalian pleasures of the Athenaeum to be- 
come a dweller in the bush, and the councillor 
of rebel sovereigns, crouching at night with 
them about the draughty lamp on the bare 
cabin floor — whose pen was of gold, and his 
bed a mat upon a chest, who loved but three 
things, women, adventure, art — and art the 
least of these three, and, as men whispered, 
adventure the most — was he, even he, at ease? 
I trow not. His slender fingers plucked at his 
long moustache; his dark eyes glittered in his 
narrow, sanguine face; in his mind — the mind 



W misprint, evidently. It should be "un- 
charted." 



or, The Man Haggard* 



55 



of a poet — the oaths of stevedores and coal- 
porters hurtled. 1 

But there were of those who knew ; and 
meanwhile the ruck of the invited thronged 
with precaution on the tottering floors. The 
house was doomed; report ran openly in the 
island capital that it must fall ; perhaps noth- 
ing but the fame of the Queen-woman could 
have gathered so great a company under its 
menaced roof. And as the wind beat upon its 
walls and deluged it with volleys of stage 
rain, and the beams throbbed with that multi- 
tudinous footing, one looked to another with 
a haggard surmise, and the speech on their 
pale, silent faces syllabled a common fear : 
"Will it fall to-night?" Outside, in the nar- 
row harbour, under the darkness of the night 
and storm, huge warships tossed with their 
ponderous armament; yet these were safe, and 
that throng of many races, treading the long 
halls of the Man Haggard, knew themselves in 
danger. In vain the lamps shone many col- 
oured; in vain the banners drooped and the 
palms arched on the gorgeous walls. Heart 
spoke to heart, and their speech was of fear. 
One thought was in the mind of white and 
brown ; of the hardy American ; of the lissom 
Hindu ; of the Teuton, bearded and bald ; of 
the islander, barefoot even in that gay place, 
and robed in white like a sun-priest of the old, 
glad days, when the world's eyes were young, 

1 "My description of myself should, I think, 
amuse you." — Letters, Vol. II., p. 264. 






56 An Object of Pity; 



and the gods, etc. ; of the gilt and glazed Hus- 
sar, inured to the thunder of the squadrons; 
of the captain of great ships, deafened with the 
bellowing of his guns ; for all these were 
crowded in the halls of the Man Haggard, and 
all walked with bated breath. 

Ay, they feared that! the innocent, the un- 
cunning ; that material fear spoke loud to all ; 
the most ignorant espied, under the flowers 
and palms, the blackness of the pit. The tale 
is old; old as the days when the rude Mace- 
donian peasant, bursting his way across Thes- 
salian thickets, saw, and knew and thrilled at 
the sight of old Evoe and Dyonisius, of Heli- 
karnassos dancing, their godheads laid aside 
by the triumphal amphorae, on the white fields 
of thyme, and under the flowering boughs of 
Luchriamachristi. So was it with the guests 
of Belshazzar and the minions of Sardan- 
apalus. The material peril — ay, they could see 
that; but it was only the few that spied the 
darker omen and could read the minatory 
script upon the wall. There was the strength, 
the wisdom, the youth, wealth and beauty of 
the islands, crowded in the halls of the Man 
Haggard, swinging as they were with the as- 
sault of tempest; thronged as were their cel- 
lars with treacherous, alien slaves ; and the 
Man Haggard was not there among his guests. 

Where was he? 

In the extreme rear of his domain, far from 
the coloured lamps and the stringed music, 
the man had his dwelling in a cabin of painted 



or, The Man Haggard* 



57 



wood. A stranger (had he dared) might have 
wandered for days in that rich, decaying pleas- 
ance, and perhaps not remarked the Dwelling 
of the Master. But the way to its door was 
known by the costly steed that loved to fol- 
low and fondle him, and the wild dove that 
knew and waited for his coming. It was known 
by the cringing messengers that stole there all 
day long, the bearers of letters. For it was 
here that he received, here that he answered 
them, without a book, without a Peerage, 
trusting in the resources of his brain. And 
when the ready pen had done its work he 
would call for wine, and laugh aloud with that 
laugh of his that was noisy as a boy's and 
cruel as a woman's. Outside and in the cabin 
was to match. A female thing, a maid, a 
nymph of Dian, might fitly have bestowed her 
narrow limbs in that plain sleeping place. A 
vessel (rude as a mere consul's) served him 
for the toilet. Save for the manly shaving- 
stick, and a chest that contained a few memo- 
rials of more innocent years, the singular 
chamber might be best described as empty. 
And it was in such surroundings that he fitted 
to his powerful shoulders a coat that was 
heavy with gold, and was the gift of an Em- 
press. Ay, an Empress gave it him; but did 
she know all? 

He stood a moment in the almost royal 
pomp of his attire. "It was otherwise in Nor- 
folk, happy Norfolk, Land of Story," he 
sighed. 



58 An Object of Pity; 



But the weakness in that stern soul en- 
dured but for the instant. He turned, he 
passed forth into the night and tempest; and 
bowing his lion crest against the onset of the 
squalls, moved toward the lights and the 
music. 

"Late — ever late/' he murmured. 

Scarce a moment more, and in the eyes of his 
surprised and fascinated guests, the Man Hag- 
gard stood and glittered on the threshold, a 
hollow smile on his face, a scornful excuse 
upon his tongue. 

"At last," breathed the Queen-woman. 

And the ruddy face of Tusitala paled with 
the exquisite relief. 



or, The Man Haggard* 



59 



CHAPTER V. 



Extract from the Diary of a Woman Child. 



[BY MRS. STRONG.] 

I am a simple, child-like creature, though 
my years are more than you would suppose, 
judging from my rounded cheek and innocent 
parti-coloured eye. I love nature — and with 
my pet bird, white as snow, and a thing of ter- 
ror to all but me, who have tamed her savage 
nature by my gentle wiles — I love to wander 
by the brookside and babble to the listening 
trees, and twining garlands in my flowing hair, 
gaze upon the sweet reflection in the water. 

I live upon the mountain-side, far from the 
wild, mad world; strange are my companions, 
and greatly feared, even perhaps disliked by 
the inhabitants of that island village clustered 
upon the sea-girt shore. The mind of the 
great poet, known to the gentle island people 
as Tusitala, unbends to my innocent prattle. 
My stern, haughty brother, 1 cold as steel and 
hard of heart as my own home-made bread, 
even he deigns to call me "Little Sister" and 
"The Sunshine of the House." That strange 



^loyd Osborne. 



6o An Object of Pity; 



dark woman 1 — she of the evil eye, who rules 
supreme within the walls of our mountain 
demesne, whose lightest word is a command, 
whose flitting form, clad in flowing garments 
of electric blue, strikes terror to the hearts 
of idling men upon the wide plantation; she 
whom I call by the sacred name of "Folly," 
has been known to give me her cheek to kiss. 
There is a stranger here — one who has come 
from far across the blue sea. I call him, in my 
artless way, Pelema. 2 He is tall and fair, and 
sometimes, even at the breakfast hour, his calm 
face lights up with a sweet, shy smile when 
I and the omelette appear. 

I cannot tell of the banquet at the Man 
Haggard's; the fair lady 3 whose form is like a 
bending lily, whose smile is gracious as the 
dawn, has been described by abler hands than 
mine. Looking back upon that gay scene in 
the dear dead days, my simple mind is in a 
whirl ; but, alas ! my tender heart retains the 
image of an Officer of Hussars — languid as the 
sun at noon, and glowing like the burnished 
dome of Nebraska city. 

He spoke to me but a moment; for one 
precious heart-throb I basked in the scintilla- 
tion of his eyeglass. But how could I foolishly 
hope to keep him by my side, for she was 
there. With one toss of her yellow curls she 
lured him to her side — may Heaven forgive 
thee, Bella Decker ! 

x Mrs. Stevenson, R. L. Stevenson's mother. 
2 Graham Balfour. 3 Lady Jersey. 



or, The Man Haggard* 



61 



Epilogos. 
[by graham balfour.] 

Far, far away from torrid zones and dusky 
races, no more beneath the flaming constella- 
tions of meridian skies, no more beneath the 
midnight heavens, lurid with the splendours of 
the Southern Cross, but in the chill gloom of 
an English evening, draws this history of 
beauty and bravery to its close. It is Christ- 
mas night, and the gloom is deep, for this side 
of England is that which lies nearest to the 
gateways of the day : on it the sun god first 
lavishes his orient splendours, and from it he 
first withdraws his failing rays. The dense 
mist and icy cold would have struck terror into 
the heart of any child of the south; right 
gladly would he have turned to that side of 
the landscape where, glowing in the darkness, 
rose tier above tier the brilliantly lighted 
windows of a lordly mansion. 

There, within the dark walls, lined with the 
oaks whose acorns now furnished forth the 
stately groves that covered the surrounding 
park, in the warm rays of the Yule log, all 
that Norfolk holds of grace and chivalry, of 
dignity and birth, of strength and genius, 
was met to do honour to the aged Master of 



62 An Object of Pity; 



those halls. Scarce a family of the true aris- 
tocracy of England lacked its fitting representa- 
tive: all were there. The Montmorencis and 
the Vavasours, the De Jonghs and Spreckels- 
villes, the Longuebows and the Mirabels, those 
in whose veins ran the bluest ichor of the race, 
the azure flood which had encarnadined the 
fields of Hastings and Poictiers, of Crecy and 
Flodden. None were wanting. There were the 
generals, foremost in ten thousand fights; the 
statesmen, first in council and in daring : not the 
blatant demagogues of honeyed tongues, who 
lie and cozen and cheat the many-headed mob 
in its vile dens, but the men of lofty birth and 
breeding, pur sang et sans reproche, the men 
born to threaten and command. 

Not one was wanting. They were there, the 
Cardinal Archbishops of the old faith, eloquent 
priests and fiery martyrs. They were there, 
the Lord Chancellors, skilled draughtsmen, 
learned conveyancers, stern prosecutors, elo- 
quent counsel, the flower of the Norfolk cir- 
cuit. They were there, essayists, philosophers, 
poets, seers, who tossed off epics ere they had 
breakfasted, lulled you to sleep with golden 
numbers of a dream of life, sweeter than ever 
murmured through the groves of Academe, 
more glowing than ever flashed from the ear- 
nest lips of the ascetic of Samosata, and who 
roused you again by their deep voices trolling 
some hastily improvised Greek choriambic 
worthy of the lips of Sappho, or some Mah- 
ratta battle song. Not one was wanting. 



or, The Man Haggard* 



63 



Nor were there wanting partners worthy of 
heroes. Fair, stately women, beautiful and 
queenly, such as the cold north alone brings 
forth: women swarthy-browed and high- 
bosomed, no mean rivals of Cleopatra and 
Semiramis; lithe brunettes with flashing eyes 
and brows storm-swept with the tornadoes of 
passionate love, and yet more passionate re- 
morse; dovelike maidens, coquettish damsels; 
every type was there. Not one was wanting. 
Never was seen such a gathering of fair women 
or heroic men since Cadmus reaped his crop 
of armed warriors, or at her knee Harmonia 
gathered the pure profiles of her daughters in 
the city of the Violet Crown. 

The banquet was far advanced. Already the 
feasters were sated with ortolans and ante- 
lopes; pearl oysters and the dugong potted in 
far Australian lands passed unheeded. The 
wine cup passed freely from hand to hand, and 
from the deep cellars flowed the great vintages 
without stint, Rhenish, Chian, Falernian, Im- 
perial Tokay, and the choicest brands of 
Arcady itself. 

But now all eyes were turned to the head of 
the table, where sat the mighty figure of the 
Host, bowed with the weight of more than 
ninety years, with locks white as the garland 
of roses which crowned them; white as the 
beard which lay upon his knees, and twined 
lovingly about his feet. His massive brow 
was bronzed by tropic suns, and seamed with 
the storms of long-spent passion; but his eyes 



64 An Object of Pity; 



neither heeded nor beheld the pale host of the 
North around him. His thoughts were far 
away; away in the days of his high youth; 
away at the other side of the world, with the 
dusky tribes whom he had taught and judged 
and ruled; ay, ruled as the strong must ever 
sway the weak. Far-off voices rang in his ears 
— the cheers of a people dwelling in peace, 
secured in the titles to their lands by the 
dauntless judgments and Solonian awards of 
the Land Court of Apia. Ovations, triumphs, 
paeans — perfect paeans — passed before his eyes. 
What wonder that he neither spake nor saw? 

But now his swarthy cupbearer drew nigh, 
bearing the wassail bowl of burnished gold, 
crowned to the very brim, with liquor with- 
out price. The Master raised it to his trem- 
bling lips, and draining it at a single draught, 
he muttered : "Curagoa ! — ah, me — what mem- 
ories ! Gibson, 1 Curagoa !" And the cupbearer 
behind his chair chanted, after the wild island 
fashion, in his shrill tones : "Cock-a-doodle do ! 
My Lord Haggard drinks ! Cock-a-doodle 
do!" 

But still he muttered, "Curagoa— H.B.M.S. 
CuraQoa." 

Fired at the word, the assembled guests 
prayed to hear once more the tale of which 
none grew ever weary — the tale of Samoa — 
the siren melody of the South Seas. Back to 
the hall, back across the vaults of Time and 

*Captain Gibson was commander of the 
British warship Curagoa, on duty at Samoa. 



of, The Man Haggar d. 



65 



Space journeyed the undimmed eye; for the 
first time he heeded the assembled crowd. 
"Once more!" they craved of him, and yet 
again, "Once more !" At last he rose. At the 
sight of the lofty figure, tossed in a storm of 
petulant disdain, all bowed the head. "Ah! 
quel homme !" sobbed the Duchesse de Pondi- 
cheri, flinging at his feet her carcanet of price- 
less chalcedonies. "Lawks ! Muster Bazett, 'ee 
always were a fine figger of a man," murmured 
old Joe Bacon, the centenarian retainer, as he 
guarded jealously the door. 

Then fell on all a great hush, and out of it 
arose the voice of the old man eloquent. 
Cicero in the forum, Demosthenes in the arena, 
Chrysostom before the Council of Nicaea, never 
unfolded a tale with such stirring eloquence. 
Isocrates, Fenelon, Plutarch or Nicodemus 
had sighed with envy and remained mute in 
despair. 

Once more, in a silence broken only by the 
dropping of tears and the gasps of strong men, 
they heard that marvellous tale. 

Before them rose the palm trees and the 
primeval forests of Samoa: the harbour thick 
with rusting wrecks — the king's palace — the 
twin cathedrals — the exquisite salons of Met- 
ropolitan Apia. 

Before them moved again the slight, stealthy 
figure of the Teller of Tales, with shy, dark 
eyes, and a strange blending of mischief with 
chivalry, of Heine with the Young Chevalier. 
Hard by, for them, was that Augustan face, 



66 An Object of Pity; 



before which even the Teller bowed, master- 
ing, in its lofty lineaments, things inscrutable. 
Pride, and Strength, and Grief, and Death, 
and Love. Upon the other side moved the 
lithe form and falcon gaze of Teuila, with lov- 
ing glance and dexterous fingers, weaving a 
garland for the child that skipped around her, 
mischievous as a bag of monkeys, and fair as 
any faun in Bacchus' train. There, too, moved 
the slim and stately form of the Lady of the 
Pearl, serene alike beneath the hoofs of roll- 
ing horses or above the heads of the pigmy 
folks upon the beach. There, too, the well- 
knit form of the cynosure of salons and of 
squadrons, ablaze with crystal and with gold. 
In the background towered once more a pair of 
lofty figures : the one broad, with features 
clean-shaven and sardonic. "Souvent femme 
varie," he snarled, in deep and luscious ac- 
cents; "Tout passe — tout lasse: only cacao 
pays," he added, flinging a handful of gifts, 
accompanied by a burning glance of admiration 
upon the Samoan crowd. But no word passed 
the stern lips of his companion, Pelema, the 
onlooker, who long had renounced all ambi- 
tions, and stood aloof, the better to watch the 
game. Behind all these a background of 
swarthy figures, with Titanic sinews and lux- 
uriant forms, in which here and there appeared 
the German, the missionary, or the Comber of 
the Beach. 

The cunning tongue marshalled this strange 
procession, bending it in and out, leading it to 



urfk 



ot f The Man Haggard* 



67 



and fro, always past one dignified and slender 
figure, whose dark eyes gleamed dimly as 
through a veil, which seemed to shroud her 
features in mystery. Gracious words fell from 
her lips; gracious thoughts guided her acts; 
and still through all the twisting and twining, 
mystery abode around her; a mystery as deep 
as ever brooded upon the waves of Eleusis, or 
sanctified the croonings of the Dodonean dove. 

Once more the tale we have heard was dis- 
closed, and still to the end the mystery of the 
Nameless Lady was unrevealed. 

A great shout burst from all that company. 
"Bravo ! bravo ! bis ! bis !" they cried. "Who 
was she?" they clamoured; "tell us her name 
at least!" 

Proud beauties that never had to ask before 
joined their supplications to the seductions of 
their sisters, whose pride it was to bend the 
haughtiest to their will, and wring the deepest 
secrets from reluctant lips. The golden mouths 
of matchless orators were added to the blunt 
behests of unconquered soldiers and the subtle 
inducements of the wily priest: "Tell us who 
was she, this Queen?" they cried with pas- 
sionate glances, and yet again, "Her name?" 

But for all his ninety years the heart of the 
Man of Iron remained unmolten. "They are 
all dead and gone," he said, "save me alone ! 
Amicus Socrates, amicus Plato, sed magis 
amicus curiae. In this bosom perishes the 
Secret of the Beach of Apia." 



68 



An Object of Pity. 



Vale — Samoa, 
[by captain leigh.] 

Good-bye to the Samoan Isles, 

The Siva 1 and the Kava. 2 
Good-bye to seas of emerald green, 

And rocks of glistening lava. 
Farewell to bold Malie's chief, 

And eke to Malietoa. 
Farewell to Tamasese's Clan, 

The kindest in Samoa. 
Farewell to all the cheery folk, 

Who live upon Vailima. 
I know they will not laugh, and say 

We ne'er saw Apolima. 
Farewell to her — the woman-child — 

I trust that naught will check her 
Belief in me — it isn't true, 

That I love Bella Decker. 
The steamer's whistle warns me, I 

No more can be a laggard. 
So farewell to my generous host, 

Farewell to Bazett Haggard. 



x The native dance of the Samoans. 
2 The native drink. 






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